


The Object

by CumbersomeWit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (sort of), Anniversary, Carlos is a Dork, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is a Dork, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Vague mentions of minor violence, basically just lots of dorking around, mainly just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumbersomeWit/pseuds/CumbersomeWit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos comes home early, but Cecil doesn't come home at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Object

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small, fluffy, remedy piece to a long WTNV fic I have been working on. Many thanks to Angel Cake for being my beta! This story would not be the way it is without your smartarse comments ;) Also much thanks to my darling Courtney, who took the time to look over this piece and correct my Spanish even though she is not part of the fandom.

Every few minutes Carlos stops working to peek inside his desk drawer. The empirical data suggests that Monday is the safest twenty-four hour period in which to keep secret things hidden, but he is not so disillusioned as to believe that his particular secret object falls without the bounds of statistical outliers.

“Four is brimming,” Lilith drawls from his side. Carlos shuts the drawer and hastens to turn down the flame. He can practically _feel_ her eye-roll.

The whole lab knows, of course. Not only Carlos’s co-workers, who are, for the most part, human and self-aware, but also his lab equipment, his office chair, and the painting of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that appeared on the wall the first time Cecil visited the lab, which has taken to calling him Mr Holmes with a furious glare. The cabinets in particular are going out of their way to help him in his time of scientific absent-mindedness, flinging their doors open and spitting out equipment as soon as someone thinks to need it.

In precisely three hours, fifty-two minutes and fourteen seconds, it will be a year since Carlos kissed Cecil for the first time.

Technically the whole day has been their one year anniversary, if one is to assume that the time between their first date and this morning has been constant. It has not. The sentiment, however, more than makes up for it.

Carlos registers Lilith’s piteous sigh just as she reaches over and turns down the rest of the Bunsen burners. “You’re drowning the pods,” she scolds. Pods one through to six hiss at him in equal cadence and tone. Carlos makes a note of this in his log book. When he glances up, Lilith is searching his face with only a shadow of her usual smugness. “Maybe you should take the rest of the evening off?”

Carlos swallows, staring blindly at his notes. “It would be unprofessional of me to leave an experiment unfinished.”

“Do you even know what you’re testing right now?”

“No, you don’t understand,” he blurts, “I can’t possibly sit in our house with all our accumulated things and our _togetherness_ when I know that in two hours Cecil is going to come home and expect things that I can’t possibly deliver within my limited knowledge of anniversary customs –”

Lilith grabs Carlos by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. “Calm down,” she enunciates, her purple bob bouncing with the movement. “You’ve been working on that present for months. Cecil will love it. You know Cecil. And Cecil knows that he’s the first relationship you’ve ever had that hasn’t ended in immediate disaster. Now take your present, go home, have a glass of something hard, and _relax_. And for god’s sake, stop checking that your present hasn’t dematerialised on you.”

Lilith lets go of his shoulders and gives him a pointed look.

Carlos looks at his work for the day. It really is a pitiful case study. The pods seem to glare at him from their bubbling beakers, as if knowing their sacrifices for the pursuit of science have been used in vain.

Carlos sighs. He takes out Cecil’s present and clutches it to his chest, then gestures to his workbench with a heavy arm. “Could you please try to salvage this?” He asks Lilith, who is watching him now with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s my job,” she grouses, not unreasonably. Before he can thank her she is pushing him out of the way.

Carlos turns around and freezes. Everyone in the lab is looking at him. More than one person is smirking. His face heats up and he ducks his head, listening as the noise he hadn’t realised was absent refills the room. He hurries out the door, present pressed against his heart beneath the fabric of his lab coat.

 

* * *

 

He changes seventeen times even though Cecil has seen and approved of all of his clothing. Almost everything he owns lies in a heap on Cecil’s side of the bed before he finally decides to forgo wearing a lab coat. Cecil, for some reason, is particularly infatuated with the idea of Carlos without it. He hangs each coat up with unnecessary languor, smoothing the lapels and cleaning out the pockets. Then he puts away everything else, until only one shirt and a pair of dark jeans remain. He picks up the shirt with a fond smile.

Cecil bought this flannel for him after Carlos’s old one was torn to shreds. He still has the scars the intern’s claws had left down his ribs, but the pain had been worth it, to see Cecil’s bravery, and then his concern. All these things that Carlos had only been privy to from a distance.

The new flannel, of course, is purple.

Carlos dons it over a fresh t-shirt and buttons it up with care, caressing each button as it pushes through the hole. He pulls on his jeans, folds his shedclothes and drops them into the hamper, mindful of Cecil’s effort to keep the place clean. Then he removes the cloth from the mirror.

“Don’t you look dashing tonight!” The mirror immediately coos.

Carlos blushes and covers it back up.

The kettle is already beginning to boil when he heads into the kitchen, its silver form hopping around excitedly on the table top. “You’re an attention-seeking lifesaver,” Carlos declares. The kettle emits a steamed whistle, but still pours the tea into Carlos’s mug. He adds a spoon of honey and watches it dissolve.

The kettle nudges at a second mug. “Cecil won’t be here for another half hour,” Carlos explains. The kettle lets off another whistle, slightly harsher, then rearranges itself on its hotplate. He leaves it to boil.

Carlos sits down in his armchair and takes a delicate sip. Cecil’s present is placed in the very centre of the coffee table, as much out of harm’s way as is possible in this town, and unaccompanied by a note. Should Carlos have written a note? Or possibly a card? He’s awful with words, and there isn’t enough time to go out and buy anything, let alone prepare a sentence or two that doesn’t sound stilted or mention anything about science –

Carlos takes another sip of tea. It’s going to be a long half hour.

 

* * *

 

The half hour turns into an hour, which turns into two. Carlos wonders if he should make dinner. The plan was for Cecil to make dinner. Something romantic and edible. Despite his aptitude in combining chemical compounds that may one day be useful to science, the only food he can manage to cook is pasta, which is not at all romantic. But it’s late, Cecil is late, there is no dinner and the minute Carlos first kissed Cecil a year ago today has passed. That is, of course, without taking into account the various time anomalies that have since occurred.

The sentiment is enough.

At first Carlos was angry, but now he only has room for his anxiety. It fills the spaces within himself that should not be filled, making him stiff with worry, nauseous with terror. Anything could have happened to Cecil to make him late. Anything. As far as Carlos is aware there is nothing in this town that is impossible. If you can imagine it, it can happen.

Carlos tries calling Cecil’s mobile again. The speaker spits slime onto his cheek. He doesn’t notice.

The kettle is hissing and whining in the kitchen, indignant at Cecil’s prolonged absence. Carlos pours himself his fifth cup of tea in an attempt to supplicate it, but it carries on, like a child sobbing for its parent. Carlos leaves the mug on the table, beside the others.

He paces.

 

* * *

 

Carlos thrusts the window open. “Michaela?” he calls. His voice is rough and quiet, like a fever dream. He clears his throat and is about to try calling again when Michaela, clad in black balaclava and a sword as long as her body is tall, swings up from the underside of a tree branch. “¿Si?” She queries, in a voice void of any accent. Michaela is the only person in Night Vale that Carlos knows to be Latino other than himself. This is usually enough to comfort him.

“Cecil’s missing,” he finally voices, and it comes crashing down on him, makes his arms shake. “I know three hours isn’t long enough to make it official but it’s our anniversary, he wouldn’t be late if he could help it, and he promised to make dinner so we could eat in before we exchanged gifts but he hasn’t come home and he’s not answering his phone and the statistical probability that he is in mortal danger is _so high_ –”

“Carlos,” Michaela interrupts. He clamps his jaw shut and wills himself not to cry. “It’ll be okay. I’ll call in, see if there are any reports of disturbances at the Station.”

“Thank you,” Carlos rasps. Michaela disappears from his line of sight and he sighs, drops his head onto his folded arms on the windowsill. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, swallowing against his terror, but when Michaela comes back it feels like too long.

“There haven’t been any reports of unusual activity at the Radio Station or the surrounding area,” she begins without delay, “but the Sheriff has dispatched a team to take a look around. Cecil and he are friends, did you know?”

It takes a couple moments for this to process. “I didn’t,” Carlos replies. He feels like he’s drowning, like the floor is opening up and swallowing him whole. Michaela is suddenly right in front of him, cupping his face. “Respira,” she commands. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a shaky mess, breathes in again. Michaela cradles his head against her shoulder. “I’ll stay with you until Cecil comes home, okay? He’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Carlos forces, even though he doesn’t at all.

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight when the commotion at the front door rouses Carlos out of his panicked stupor. Vaguely he notices Michaela disappear out the window, but he’s walking to the front door, his entire existence is the front door, the turning knob, and then Cecil’s body, panting and wild-eyed and looking as if he’s been crying.

“Carlos!” He cries, just as Carlos envelopes him in a fierce, unyielding hug.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he rasps. “I thought you were _dead_ , I thought it was our anniversary and I’d never be able to see you again or give you your present or watch your smile or listen to your voice or wake up beside you, and the mortality rate is so high here, there are so many possible variables that could kill you, but that can’t ever happen, do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Cecil presses into the skin behind his ear. His hands are buried in Carlos’s hair and they pet him, as if to calm him down.

Carlos inhales his scent, feels his chest rise and fall against his own. Matches the rhythm until they’re breathing together. He’s calm for a moment, until the clarity of his mind has him realising he has no idea what’s happened. Cecil doesn’t have pain receptors, and if he’s hurt he may not realise it until it’s too late. Carlos pulls away from Cecil and immediately inspects his clothes for blood. Cecil stands still during his inspection, but once Carlos begins tugging at his sweater vest Cecil stills his hands with his own. “I’m fine,” he reassures, in that deep, reverberating tone that would usually have Carlos shivering.

“Are you positive?” Carlos fires. “Have you checked? Your body is especially vulnerable to invisible internal injuries. What if you go into shock?”

“I have a couple of bruises, Carlos, that’s all. They weren’t overtly trying to hurt me.”

“What _happened_?” Carlos pleads.

“Would you like to sit down?” Carlos doesn’t answer, but Cecil guides them over to the couch. They sit pressed close together, Carlos’s hand on Cecil’s knee, periodically squeezing as if to make sure that he is there. “It was the new management,” Cecil explains, face neutral. “As soon as I ended my broadcast Daniel came in and forced me into the intern break room. As you know, there are no windows or doors there, so I was finding it difficult to escape. When the Sheriff’s Secret Police came, they distracted Daniel and Lauren long enough to open a portal for me to escape through.” Cecil scowls, pausing. “I think they kept me there as a warning. Because they knew what today meant. To me.” Cecil’s expression turns painfully heartbroken. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time that evening Carlos feels joyful. “Actually,” he begins, holding Cecil’s right wrist in his line of sight and performing some hasty calculations, “if I’ve accurately recorded each time anomaly within the past year – excluding your trip on the underground – we technically have just over three hours until our anniversary.” Carlos looks up at Cecil and can’t stop the blush from spreading across his face. “Do you maybe want to still have that dinner?”

Cecil’s eyes widen. “Yes! Yes of course, yes!”

 

* * *

 

Half of Cecil’s anniversary present to him is a recreation of his mother’s best recipes; seafood paella, spicy roast capsicum sauce atop his mother’s famous mini potato omelettes, and for dessert, cinnamon sugar churros with a pleasantly bitter chocolate sauce that has Carlos groaning in satisfaction. There are a couple of interesting seafood specimens in the paella that Carlos reminds himself to research later, and the potato omelettes are made with John Peter’s imaginary corn flour, but watching Cecil labour over his mother’s recipes and then light up every time Carlos compliments the food, he thinks he likes the changes just as much.

They leave the dishes in the kitchen to deal with in the morning, and head back into the living room. Cecil has been eyeing his present all night, and now, as they sit again on the couch, his eyes flick between it and Carlos without trying to hide the fact.

“You can open yours first,” Carlos offers, because Cecil looks as if he is about to thrum out of his skin with excitement.

Cecil vigorously shakes his head. “Oh no, dear Carlos, open your present first, I insist!”

“I’ve already received half of my present. It’s only fair.”

Before Cecil can begin another rebuttal, Carlos grabs the present off the table and thrusts it into Cecil’s chest. “Happy Anniversary,” he directs to the space above Cecil’s shoulder.

“Ah,” Cecil breathes. He squeezes Carlos’s hands for a second, taking the present in a gentle grip. Carlos watches as Cecil’s long fingers coerce the tape from the purple wrapping paper, watches as he unfolds it in neat, crisp lines. The thin white box is revealed and Carlos holds his breath, wondering if he is even now experiencing an elongation of time.

Cecil opens the box and lets out a breathy, surprised, “Oh.”

Carlos’s heart seizes. “I know it’s not much,” he stammers, “but I thought you might appreciate the practicality of a writing utensil. What self-respecting reporter is ever without a pen, even if they have been municipally outlawed? Ah, which isn’t to say that you are not self-respecting. I only thought that it would be useful to you. I promise I haven’t broken any laws. It’s my own fountain pen, and I made the ink myself so you wouldn’t have to buy replacements. I also – uh, made the engraving.”

Cecil turns the pen around and emits a high-pitched squeal.

“My dear Carlos,” he ejaculates. “My thoughtful, loving, beautiful Carlos! It’s perfect!”

“Are you sure?”

Cecil’s eyes crinkle with the force of his smile, and Carlos automatically embraces him as he flings his arms around Carlos’s neck. “Any declaration of your love can never fail to be perfect!”

Carlos stutters. “It’s not – it’s only the date and time of our first kiss.”

“It’s perfect,” Cecil repeats, and captures Carlos’s lips with his own. Carlos’s breath hitches and the suction slots their lips together, a soft tingle that travels down his spine. His heart is hammering as if wanting to escape the ridiculous pandemonium that is his emotions, even though they have shared dozens, perhaps even hundreds of kisses just like this. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of feeling Cecil’s breath tickle his face, the heat of his body through his clothes, pressed close and yielding. When Cecil pulls away it feels too soon.

Carlos blinks his eyes open, having no recollection of ever closing them. Cecil is blushing when he leans over the couch and straightens, holding a small rectangular present wrapped in ribbed red wrapping and donned with a purple bow. “Happy Anniversary,” he grins, and hands over the present.

The wrapping paper is sturdy, nearly like cardstock as Carlos follows Cecil’s example and neatly removes it from the box. The box itself is black and smooth, shimmering slightly under the dim light of the table lamps, like obsidian fish scales. Carlos removes the lid, not knowing what to expect.

He stares.

“It’s a portable radio,” Cecil explains, voice rising with excitement. “You can clip it on your collar, and the ear bud is attached to it, so you can’t pull it out. It’s minimal fuss, doesn’t take up any room at all. I thought you could use it when doing science?”

“So I can listen to your show.”

Cecil blushes. “Well, yes. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, but ever since you told me you listened in …”

Carlos picks up the tiny radio, cradling it in his palm. It’s the smallest portable radio he’s ever seen, no bigger than the first joint of his thumb, with a sturdy clip and a single, extendible ear bud. It is the exact shade of his inner wrist.

Carlos looks Cecil in the eye. “Thank you.”

“Do you like it?”

Carlos smiles, soft and fond. “It’s perfect.”

 

* * *

 

They stay up to watch the sunrise, finishing off the leftover churros even though they are still stuffed full from dinner. They’ve piled up all the pillows they could find into a makeshift nest on the balcony. Carlos finds Cecil more comfortable, so he leans against Cecil’s chest, and they play footsie to pass the time.

When the sun is up high enough to blind them they put away the pillows, yawning so enthusiastically Carlos pops a muscle. They tumble into bed, clothes strewn on the floor, with three extra pillows but too exhausted to care. It takes them seconds to settle, Cecil’s arm flung over Carlos. His lips brush the back of Carlos’s neck in a silent declaration just as Carlos is drifting off to sleep.

He wakes up, four hours later, to Cecil’s purring snores and the realisation that he is late for work.

He’s stuffing his arms in his lab coat when he sees the pen. Smiling, he creeps over to Cecil’s bedside table, tears a page out of his notebook and carefully writes, in purposeful, confident lines, _I love you_. Then he folds the note in half and scrawls Cecil’s name.

Carlos leaves it propped next to the pen, waiting for Cecil to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: "respira" is the Spanish command for "breathe". The formal Spanish is "respirar".


End file.
